


Straight of Cards

by AngstPhilosophy, RandomRingWriter118, Thatoneperson98, theparadoxicalfox, TrulyMightyPotato, writtenFIRES



Series: Royal Flush [15]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (no sex is at all involved anywhere in this), Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Suicide, Blood, Breaking and Entering, Gen, Implied Child Abuse, Implied Child Death, Murder, Name Changes, Stealing, Strong Language, Sweet Ending, This is more of an easter egg than anything, Threats, Train Hopping, Weapons, a grown man breaking into a teenage girl's room, border hopping, but down to the important tags:, death of a minor character, forced unconsciousness through drugs, implied sexual harassment, mentions of historical figure, questionable immigration practices, runaway minors, takes place over a course of about five years, tattered child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstPhilosophy/pseuds/AngstPhilosophy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomRingWriter118/pseuds/RandomRingWriter118, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatoneperson98/pseuds/Thatoneperson98, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxicalfox/pseuds/theparadoxicalfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenFIRES/pseuds/writtenFIRES
Summary: The Faceless are a bit of a mysterious organization. How do they get new recruits?Mostly that's what this is.Also a great deal of us just having fun.





	1. The Assassin of Hearts

Cleveland, always bitter cold and wet; or at least that’s how it felt outside the dead heat of midsummer. Nestled so close to the lake, rain and snow were a constant, the latter often piling into dirty grey masses on street corners. Industry, maker of riches and filth alike, and Cleveland happened to be at the forefront of the revolution. Factories clustered along the lakeshore and the rivers, brown and murky with their spill-off. On the outskirts spread the houses of those who worked in these behemoths of mass production.

Some would argue it was diverse, with its mix of recent immigrants and blacks. Others would argue it was all just clusters of countries from Eastern Europe, with everyone sticking to their own. Poles, Slavs, Serbs, Germans; they all had a name and a culture, and every one had something to say about the others.

Ružica Luketich wasn’t like most kids her age because of this. Unlike her fellows who were just one ethnicity, she was already somewhat of a mutt with her mix of German, Polish, Croatian, Slovak and even a hint of Irish. Some said her family were “crossbreeding” even before arriving in the “New World.” Ružica, or Ruža as she was affectionately called, didn’t know and, to be honest, really didn’t care either. She had European blood, certainly, but she was born on American soil and they couldn’t take that from her.

However, neighbors would be neighbors, and cultures still stuck to their own. Ruža lived in a moderately sized Polish neighborhood not far-off from the Flats, an area beneath a majority of the city which ran right along the edge of the Cuyahoga River. It was a seedy district then, run by the Flats Mob, and no one with good intentions walked those streets.

Her neighborhood had been a different story, thankfully. Throughout Ruža’s childhood the neighborhood was relatively friendly, full of generous people who cooked far too much food. There was the constant clipped Polish chatter of grandmothers gossiping and snipping at paper, embroidering or painting their chickens’ eggs. All fine crafts Ruža’s mother had attempted to teach her, but none of them caught her eye like the foods did. Kielbasa, pierogi, pyzy,  kopytka , gołąbki, śledzie, bigos, schabowy, oscypek; the list went on and on. Sausages, cabbage, cheese and potatoes, those were the mainstays and easy to come by.  Ruža’s father always claimed she took to cooking as a duck did to water.

Back then, most women would use those skills to get a husband and tend a family. Ruža couldn’t be any less interested in either of those things, much to her family’s dismay. Instead, she focused on getting a job, seeking to help support her growing family of five. Only so much money could be brought in from her father fixing automobiles and her mother taking odd jobs.

That’s what led her to Petruczka’s, a family owned and run greasy spoon smack dab in the heart of Cleveland’s most Slavic borough. The owner was a friendly old German in need of a helping hand, and Ruža dove into the hard labor with a gusto most women saved for the household. It was like living the dream, cooking delicious foods all day to bring a smile to the faces of her worn down neighbors. Yet, like all dreams, there came a wake-up call.

In Ruža’s mid-teens, a gang sprouted up. In contrast to the thriving Polish mob in the Flats, this was a simple group of rebellious upstarts who’d witnessed the “big boys” and their crime scene and wanted a piece of that pie themselves. Not much of a threat in the beginning, more of an embarrassment really, but that was just the problem. When ignored and underestimated, minor issues were given room to rapidly grow and fester, like mold. A year later, half a dozen men had tripled, and leadership was being established. People were starting to take notice, but by then it was too late.

The East Side Slavs as they came to call themselves weren’t above tormenting and extorting their once friends and neighbors. They introduced all manner of drugs and weapons to the once safe streets, kidnapped and robbed innocent people, and picked fights which could range from simple back alley brawls to full scale gunfire. People became terrified to go outside during certain hours or alone. Specific streets were avoided like some modern plague. The gang was a menace, and all around Ruža her people were suffering.

Many sought help from local law enforcement, to no avail. The police were either too scared, or they’d already been bribed into complacency. It boiled Ruža’s blood, but no one else had the capacity to try and fight back. They weren’t soldiers. The neighborhood as a whole outnumbered the E.S.S. five to one, but they had the community in a chokehold of fear. They lived like tyrant kings, and Ruža was no stranger to their misdeeds. In fact, more often than not she was uncomfortably close to those involved.

Petruczka’s was, after all, their absolute favorite place to eat.

They were as much a menace in the restaurant as they were on the streets. Loud and raucous, often leaving property damaged, food smeared on the floors and walls; they scared off the other patrons and would lord the place to themselves for  _ hours _ . It would drive Ruža’s employer mad, and leave her feeling unsafe. She was, after all, a woman who happened to be “of age” and “not half bad to look at.” Oh, how she envisioned the things she would do if one ever found the nerve to step foot in the kitchen.

The years passed, and though the gang failed to grow further and match or surpass their rivals in the Flats, they didn’t shrink either. They continued to prosper over what territory they’d claimed with no end to their terror in sight. The people had long given up hope.

This included Ruža’s employer, who finally had enough and deigned to retire soon after her eighteenth birthday. Rather than close Petruczka’s doors, he offered the restaurant to Ruža. She’d kept it afloat by his side for all these years; she was the only one he trusted enough. Honored, she accepted, and thus took the burden of being an E.S.S. favorite solely upon her shoulders. It didn’t matter. The restaurant was one of the few things which could still bring joy to the residents of this little borough, and she wouldn’t allow the E.S.S. to take that away as well. Her cooking could still bring smiles to their faces.

Yet, as Ruža wrapped up her first year of being Petruczka’s sole proprietor, she realized something  _ had  _ to be done. The E.S.S. were becoming more intolerable by the month, nearly rocking her restaurant to the ground on more than one occasion. And her people, everyone who lived in the surrounding neighborhoods, they were  _ fading _ . The brightness had gone away from the grasses and the sky, like a neverending winter. There were no children in the streets, no grandmothers on porches, barely a whisper between the homes. She couldn’t stand it.  _ This  _ was not how it was meant to be. They were not the Flats. They did not have to be a community of fear.

She was only one woman. If Ruža was going to pull this off, she needed a plan. In a week’s time, one of the major gang bosses would be having a birthday. No doubt the entire gang would try getting together to celebrate, as excessively as possible. It was the coincidence Ruža needed and she jumped on it. As cordially as she could manage in the face of such brutes, she invited them all to Petruczka’s to celebrate, and urged them to bring along their cop friends as well. Two birds with one stone, as her grandmother used to say.

With their location in her favor, next came the hard part. How exactly did one put an end to an entire gang of experienced criminals and a handful of trained police officers in one swift go? A bomb was out of the question. Ruža would never consider destroying Petruczka’s in such a way. Besides, she didn’t have the first clue on how to build one. Food was her expertise; food and the ingredients which went into making it.

A spark of inspiration, then, as she combed through all she’d learned over the years. Natural remedies and maladies, plants and their properties; how they could kill, how they could put a person to sleep. That was the key. Make them all fall asleep, then pick them off. Be smart, make it look like a fight. Make it look like an evening of indulgence gone wrong. They all had such short tempers and volatile personalities. No one would doubt her, no one would  _ care  _ to. They could be free.

All it would take was a bit of murder.

Ruža dealt with her conflicting feelings and morals throughout the week leading up to the big night. Murder was wrong, she’d always been taught such. But what about murder for the greater good? What about ridding her loved ones of a menace? The E.S.S. wouldn’t go away on their own. No one else was stepping up to stop them. At this rate, her borough would become a ghost town. Like this, she could save it. She could restore the streets to how they were when she was a child.

Had these men not done the same? Had they not done  _ worse?  _ How many evenings had she feared for herself? Her brother? Her  _ sister?  _ They’d been forced to grow up alongside this brutality. How many more children would be frightened and traumatized in the years to come? It wasn’t fair.

No, this life wasn’t fair. Perhaps it would continue this way for Ruža, and these men, but she could tilt the scales a little more into her neighbors’ favor.

The night arrived, and Petruczka’s was packed to near bursting with rowdy men. Ruža put on her very best “generous hostess” face and supplied them with all the food and drink they could ever ask for. They were drunk as skunks before the first stars twinkled into being and none the wiser to her cunning. Just a bit of wild lettuce, grown in her neighbor’s garden as a sleep aid, coupled with skullcaps from her own backyard. A potent sedative if ever there was one, made even more effective by the steady flow of vodka.

They were all out like a light before midnight. It was time for the real work to begin.

There were many moments where Ruža could have changed her mind and turned back. Played off their morning stupor as a side effect of the alcohol. When she returned to the kitchen; when she picked up her sharpest knife; when she picked her way among the sleeping bodies; when she stood over the unconscious form of the birthday boy. So many moments.

_ So many moments of happiness they’d stolen. _

No, in the end there really was no going back, not for Ružica. With her grip tight on the knife, she sunk the blade deep into the gang boss’s heart. He jerked, choking on air and waking for the briefest of moments before falling still. Not another soul stirred in the wake of her terrible deed. Not a pair of eyes bore witness besides her own. The first seed was sown. Ripping out her knife, Ruža turned around to face the rest. An entire garden still needed to be planted.

They fell like stalks of wheat to the scythe, like lambs in a slaughter. Some woke on the very brink of death. Some slipped away from their dreams into the eternal darkness of the afterlife. None ever touched her. None ever said a word. Once or twice, their eyes would meet hers, but Ruža felt nothing for them. Not for these cruel men and their bloodstained hands. They had shown her friends and neighbors no mercy, and so, she would show them none in kind. Eventually she picked up a rhythm, akin to when she’d be butchering. They were just animals, in the end. They’d offered up their humanity for the reaping long ago.

Some were stabbed and a few had their throats cut. Ruža was careful to make the wounds appear sporadic and uncalculated. She let the blood flow and spurt as it may, shoving over bodies and tables and chairs. She broke a few lamps and some glassware, stabbing more than one man with a broken bottle. A few, she dragged into the kitchen, where she proceeded to smear more blood and create destruction.

It hurt her to do these things, but it had to be convincing. Which was exactly why, near the end of it, she pulled on some gloves and took up their guns. It was in the wee hours of the morning when gunfire would sound, bullets lodging themselves into walls and flesh alike. She killed the last few in this manner, and riddled some corpses with bullets for good measure. Never once did she flinch. Never once did she feel empathy. These men didn’t deserve it. Not after what they’d said, and not after what they’d done.

Their filthy hands, she could still feel them, grabbing at her skirts and touching at her wrists.  _ Disgusting.  _ They’d never touch another woman again. They’d never hurt  _ anyone  _ ever again.

When the only breath in the restaurant was her own, when all movement had stilled and the bodies began to grow cold, only then did she allow herself to feel. Now it was necessary, now it would do her a service. Ruža let the horror and brutality of her actions flood back into her heart and embraced the misery it spawned, clutching at it like a string of pearls and wailing into the night. She let the tears flow freely as she smeared more blood on herself, succumbing to the pain of cutting her arms. Make it look real. Make her appear the victim.

Call the police. The few who were just scared, the ones not laying in a pool of their own blood.

She was still an “emotional wreck” when they arrived, falling into their arms with sobs and hiccups, clutching at their uniforms. A couple headed inside and she could hear their gasps and curses at the level of carnage, felt how the officer supporting her tightened his grip. As if he could protect her from a threat long gone. It was pathetically easy.

“Th-they just s-started fighting! I was… i-in the kitchen, and… and I heard the shouting. The gunshots. They were ki-illing each other, and… and they came in the kitchen, looking for more weapons. I hid. I hid beneath a body and I waited and it just kept going and and and-” She paused to draw a shuddering breath, burying her face away in his chest. Weak and vulnerable; those were the key words to gaining their pity, to being dismissed as a threat. “I thought I was go-oing to die….”

“It’s… it’s okay now, you’re okay. It’s okay. Poor girl. C’mon, come sit down.” The officer led her over to the passenger seat of his cruiser and gave her a trauma blanket. “Just sit tight. We’re going to check things out and then we’ll get ahold of your parents. Everything’s going to be okay. They can’t hurt you now.” He lingered for a moment, then left to join the others in the restaurant.

Ruža ducked her head down, still trembling and sniffling. She was covered in so much blood, she wondered if the smell would ever leave her. She responded in a wavering whisper long after the cop had gone away, “They can’t hurt  _ anyone  _ now.”

It was a week later, when the corpses had been gathered up and Petruczka’s officially closed in the wake of the carnage, that she was approached by a stranger. Ruža had long been taken off any scraps of a suspect list and the entire massacre was labeled a drunken gang fight gone wrong. Few were missed, and many agreed even the lives of the officers which were lost happened to be an improvement to the force overall. The East Side Slavs were no more and it felt as if chains had been lifted off the borough.

Many had visited her in the days that followed, offering their condolences and various gifts in an effort to raise her spirits. “Poor child,” they would say, and, “A miracle she survived.” No one was the wiser, not even her own flesh and blood suspected a thing. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the flawless execution of her desperate plan. She supposed, in the end, her feelings were inconsequential. The borough was safe. Now she had to do her penance.

Except this stranger, he came to her one wet, dreary afternoon while she sat on a park bench. Fresh air and solitude were two of only a few things which could settle the raging torrent in her soul. When the man stepped before her, she assumed it was just another person come to “pay their respects.” As if she’d died that night in Petruczka’s. Sometimes she wondered if part of her had.

Instead, he extended a business card and just a few words. “We know what you’ve done, but don’t worry. We’re not the law. We won’t rat you out. We’re just impressed. You might seem lost right now, and unsure of where to go from here. Our organization is good at fixing that kind of emotional limbo. You don’t have to accept. You can ignore this, and go on about your life. We won’t contact you again. But if you’d like another option… come visit us. I think you’ll find our offer attractive enough.” Then he turned around and left, as if he’d never stopped to begin with.

Ruža blinked at his retreating form, stunned and even more lost than before. But there was, indeed, an address on the card. The words “Faceless” and “Come see us soon.” She frowned a bit and furrowed her brows. Whatever this was, it seemed too serious and out of place to be a joke. In any case, she hardly had a thing to lose by giving the man a chance.

\-----

_ November 1916 _

The building was large, but discreet. Just another warehouse between alleyways. Off to the side, having a smoke, was the man Ruža had met in the park. He smiled when he saw her, a mask clutched in his free hand.

“So you decided to give us a try?”

“Show me what exactly is going on first.”

“Of course.”

He led her into the warehouse, past all kinds of people, all in various masks. Some appeared to be sparring, others were reading, but not a single one paid them any mind. Ruža’s curiosity continued to grow, peaking as they reached a sturdy metal door. A few knocks and they were let in, revealing a woman wearing a gorgeous crimson mask sitting behind a large desk.

“So, you’re Ružica Luketich. Savior of the Slavs. Or, would slayer be a more appropriate title?” When Ruža deigned not to dignify that quip with a response, the woman sighed and continued. “Sorry. Cheekiness is a habit of mine.” Ruža had no doubt the woman was smiling behind her mask. “In all seriousness, my associate here wasn’t lying to you when he said we were impressed. Taking out the entire East Side Slavs by yourself? Were it not terribly illegal, that would certainly be something to write home about.” The woman steepled her fingers, leaning forward on her elbows.

“What’s your offer?”

The woman chuckled. “Straight to the point, of course. Just like your methods.” She straightened up in her chair. “We represent a global organization known as the Faceless. Don’t worry, you wouldn’t have heard of us, trust me. Our organization handles all manner of tasks, given the right price, but we tend to specialize in those which should by all rights land a person behind bars.”

“So… you’re a gang?”

“I suppose. Though, again, I prefer the term ‘organization.’ We’re nothing like those thugs you murdered in your restaurant.”

Ruža flinched at the bluntness of her statement. “What, an organization of assassins?”

“Now you’re getting it. We do more than simple murder, but it is a core aspect of being among our ranks. It’s a bit of an honor, really, to receive an invite. Most are born into this.”

“An honor, to join a bunch of murderers?”

“Everyone needs to make a living. Sometimes, we don’t even require a payment. Sometimes, Ruža, we are just like you.”

Ruža bristled, but she couldn’t deny she was intrigued. An entire underground organization of highly skilled assassins and… other things… wanted her? Just because she’d… well, looking back on it, maybe the act  _ was  _ impressive. To murder an entire gang of men by herself… all this time, she’d only seen it as an act of kindness and mercy towards her borough. But it was far more than that, wasn’t it? She clenched her fists. “What’s in it for me?”

“That’s more like it. You’d receive room and board, as well as training. You have skill and promise, but you need fine tuning. Once you ‘graduate’ and earn your official mask, you’ll be sent out on tasks. You may be assigned to a group. You can leave our ranks at any time, but I warn you.” The woman’s voice became stony and cold as ice. “Breathe a word of our existence to anyone, and we’ll be forced to kill you.”

A shiver traveled up Ruža’s spine, but the line of her mouth had hardened. “Room and board. You said this was a global organization. Would I need to stay here, or could I go somewhere else?”

The woman seemed surprised by this, but then she settled back. “Where, exactly, would you like to go?”

Ruža ducked her head, glaring down at the ground. “Anywhere but here.” The city felt stifling to her now. Everyone knew what had  _ happened,  _ but not what she had  _ done _ . She couldn’t stand their looks of pity. She couldn’t bear to walk past Petruczka’s boarded up windows every day. The thought of picking up a new job somewhere else, or of condemning herself to the life of a housewife; it made her sick. Much as she loved her family, loved her borough, she needed to get away. She needed somewhere new, somewhere  _ no one  _ knew. “Anywhere but here.”

There was a contemplative hum. “I did just receive a request for new recruits from our headquarters in Boston…. How do you feel about the ocean?”

“I’ll take it.”

“So you’re accepting our offer?”

Ruža hesitated, just a moment, before supplying a resolute nod.

“Wonderful choice. Joseph, show her around, would you?”

“Wait.” Ruža drew a shaky breath as she drew their attention back to her. “Wait. I… I have one more request.”

“And that would be…?”

“...my name. I want… to change my name.” If she’d be leaving Cleveland and becoming an anonymous face in a new city, it only felt right to leave  _ everything  _ behind. Everyone here knew her as Ruža, as Ružica. Ružica belonged here, but she did not.

“...I see. That can be arranged. Anything you’d like it to be?”

Ruža considered the question for several long moments. Then she looked back to that scarlet mask and set her shoulders. “Ruth. Call me Ruth.”

The woman dipped her head. “Ruth. Your dead name will not leave this room. Not from our lips, at any rate. Joseph?”

The man gestured to the door, slipping back on a mask painted to look like churning waves. “Shall we?”

Ruth looked from the woman, to him, to the door. What was she getting herself into? Did it matter? No. She’d decided it didn’t when she stabbed the leader of the East Side Slavs in the heart. If assassin was her calling, then so be it. Her borough was safe. It was time to seek justice elsewhere. Mind made up, she walked out the door, leaving her old name and her old life behind with the greying snow.


	2. The Archer of Clubs

_ June 1919 _

The arrow thudded directly into the center of the target, and the archer hummed happily before aiming at the next target. She was getting better each and every day, but the opportunity of doing things in summer meant she got extra practice, and she had excelled in the past few weeks.

Rumors were, recruiters to various specialized schools were coming to the archery range in a few hours. Most of them would be sporting schools, of course, but there were a few that were more mysterious. Boarding schools, all of them.

Expensive, all of them.

She kept shooting. And she hit the bullseye of every single target.

People started showing up, as they do for these sorts of events, and she had to step aside to give others room to practice and show off too.

Several adults were walking back and forth behind them, watching as they shot. She could only assume they were the recruiters.

No matter.

As the event ended, and the sun began going down, recruiters began talking to parents and the kids cleaned up.

Elizabeth and one other girl, a bit older than her age of ten, were the only ones still left at the targets. Both of them were cleaning up, but they wanted to make sure they had all their stuff together.

All of the adults were probably at least fifty feet away. Within eyesight, of course, but still pretty far.

Lizzy went to grab her bow and prepare to put it away for the night, then froze as a tall figure walked up behind the other girl. Whether they were tall because they were tall or because she was short, she didn’t know, but she didn’t exactly think about it either.

Maybe this was just the other girl’s parent, or-

The figure grabbed the girl, hand stretching across her mouth.

_ Nope. _

Lizzy grabbed her bow, and one of the few arrows she had left to put away, and, without really thinking about it, aimed and fired.

The figure screamed and dropped the girl (who instantly scrambled away to safety), and blood bloomed across their arm.

Lizzy raised her bow again, arrow at the ready. “Don’t get any closer.”

What was she doing? Why was she doing this? This was incredibly dangerous.

The figure’s scream, though, had attracted attention. Adult attention. And when adults looked over and saw two girls facing off an adult, one with her bow ready to attack and the other sobbing on the ground behind her, they moved.

The next hour or so was a blur of the same questions over and over again, and people accusing her of attacking someone unprovoked, and the other girl and her parents thanking her for acting, but finally, Lizzy was left alone to sit in the corner of the clearing while her parents talked to yet someone else.

Was she going to regret hurting someone? No. Not when they were trying to hurt someone else.  _ “What if you’d killed him?” _ someone had asked, and that didn’t change the answer. Lizzy was an armed ten-year-old. She’d had to do something. She wouldn’t have been able to live with herself if she hadn’t.

She was a strong-willed ten-year-old. “Stubborn,” most people said.

So she’d be stubborn, if it got rid of more creeps like that guy.

“Lizzy,” her father’s voice said, and she looked up to see both her parents and one of the recruiters standing in front of her.

“Yes?”

“This Scotty Fouzen. You impressed him today, and he’s got a full-ride scholarship to a really good school he’s offering. You’d have to go away for it, but you’d be back for holidays and for the summer, so it’s not too bad. What do you say?”

Lizzy looked at the man—a young man, really—and he smiled kindly at her.

“I- can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Scotty’s smile widened, and he pulled out a business card. “Here. When you make up your mind one way or the other, call this number with your answer.” He held it out to Lizzy.

He held it out to her. Not to her parents.

She took it and looked it over. It looked genuine, at least.

“Thank you for your time, and, miss, keep using that bow of yours.”

Scotty tipped his hat and walked off, whistling softly to himself.

Lizzy looked at the card. She didn’t recognize the name of the school, but it was in Massachusetts. She wouldn’t have heard about it.

“What do you think I should do?” Lizzy looked up at her parents.

“It’s a full-ride scholarship. We want you to get a good education, and the credentials he showed us looked pretty legitimate.” Her father rubbed the back of his neck. “Ultimately, though, it’s going to be up to you. We’ll support you if you decide to go that way.”

Lizzy tapped the card against her knee, then stood. She’d keep thinking about it on the way home.

\-----

_ August 1919 _

Lizzy stepped off the train and onto the station, looking around. Boston was a big city, after all, especially after what she’d grown up with.

“Good afternoon, miss,” a familiar voice said.

She turned to see Scotty, who smiled at her.

“Oh, good. I did get off the right train.”

He laughed softly. “You did indeed.” He looked around the station. “You’re the last one to arrive. What do you say we go get you settled?”

“Sounds like a plan. Oh! Is there some way I could send a letter to my parents to let them know I arrived safely?”

“Sure thing. I don’t think the post office is open right now, but I can make sure to drop it off first thing in the morning, if you’re okay with that.”

She nodded, and the two started down the station.

“How was the train?” Scotty asked.

“I’ve never moved so fast in my entire life. It was kind of the school to pay for my ticket, though.”

“Full-ride scholarship.” Scotty threw a grin over his shoulder. “This way.”

The two continued to talk as he drove them to a large building (apartments?) and helped her inside.

“Your dorm will be right over here. Don’t worry, you’ve got an adult in the apartment with you. It’s not me, I’m not allowed to teach kids yet, just recruit them, but he’s a friend of mine. And, if you need help, I’m just down the hall.” Scotty pointed. “Apartment 407.”

Lizzy squinted at him. “That sounds a lot like your last name.”

Scotty chuckled nervously. “Yeah, well, there’s a reason for that. Housing planners thought it was funny.” He shifted, then knocked on the door. “Anyway, I think you’ll get along well with Toonz.”

“I hope so,” came the response as the door opened. “I’m trying awfully hard to be approachable.”

Lizzy looked up at the figure standing in the doorway.

He was tall.

That was okay.

She nodded at him. “Hi. I’m Elizabeth.”

“Hello. You can call me Toonz, if you want, but my name is Luke Patterson.”

“Toonz is fine. You can call me Lizzy.”

“Deal.”

Scotty started walking off. “I’ll let you two get settled. Just remember, I’m just down the hall if you need help!”

“No, don’t leave,” Toonz murmured, before stepping aside. “Well, Lizzy, come on in, I guess. You’ll be sharing a room with an older student named Hannah. And, just so you know, there are five of us total here: you, me, Hannah, and two boys who haven’t arrived just yet.” He paused, pulling something off a shelf in the living room and holding it out to her. “This is the key to your room. Only you and Hannah have a copy of it, so you two are the only ones who can get in.”

“Good.”

Toonz squinted at her, but just continued leading her through the apartment. “That’s my room, though I think I’m going to be spending the night at Scotty’s tonight—just to make sure you and Hannah don’t feel threatened by me. Is that okay with you?”

“You’re the teacher. You shouldn’t have to ask me for permission.”

Toonz let out a long breath. “Yeah, not sure how long I’m going to last as a teacher, but I’m trying my best here.” He kept moving. “That’ll be the boys’ room, and this here, this is yours and Hannah’s.” He nodded at a door. “Hannah’s out with some friends right now, but she’ll be back before curfew.” He paused. “Right. Curfew. Uh, that’s an hour before dark. And, for safety reasons, I have to know where you’re going and who you’re going with, just so I have a reference point if you go missing and I have to call the police or something.”

“Okay.”

He let out a long breath. “Uh, breakfast is either here in the kitchen or in the cafeteria. I’ve got a meeting in the morning, so have Hannah take you to the cafeteria. Your class schedule is on the kitchen table, by the way, if you want to go looking for your classrooms.” He made a face. “Am I forgetting anything?” He looked toward the kitchen. “No, I think that’s it for now. Any questions?”

“What do I do if you’re creepy?”

“Get Scotty. He’ll help you report me. I hope I don’t do that, though.” He scratched the back of his head. “Oh, so I’m not all that good with people getting sick, but there is a medical ward in the building. Hannah can show that to you too. It’s open all the time, so even if you get sick in the middle of the night, you don’t have to suffer until morning.”

“Okay.” Lizzy unlocked the bedroom door and slid herself and her luggage inside.

“Until classes start, you’re free to spend your time how you want. Just try not to get lost in the city.”

“I’ll try to avoid that.”

“Good.”

“I’m going to unpack now, if that’s alright.”

Toonz nodded. “Of course. If you need me, I’ll be reading in the living room.”

Lizzy closed the door and rolled her eyes. This must be Toonz’s first year as a teacher. He was so nervous.

\-----

_ August 1921 _

Lizzy snapped off a series of arrows, embedding them firmly into the targets. She hadn’t gotten nearly enough practice over the summer, and she wanted to be in top shape for her new trainer.

She knew what the school really was now, but she was okay with the idea of being a Faceless. She hadn’t told her parents, of course, because they wouldn’t have let her continue going, full-ride scholarship or no.

She liked the feeling of being in control of herself, though, and the sense of protection her mask gave her.

As for her new trainer, she had no idea who they were going to be. She’d only gotten the news that Toonz was returning to regular field work a few hours ago. Apparently one of his friends had just graduated, and he was coming down to Boston to work—and Toonz and two of his friends and the new graduate were forming a team. Rumors had it they wanted their code name to be the “Banana Bus Crew,” which was perfectly ridiculous enough for Toonz.

Lizzy sighed and went to retrieve her arrows. When she turned around, though, there was a woman standing near the marked shooting spot.

“Hello,” she greeted cordially, eyeing the black cat mask the woman was holding in her hand.

“Hello. I’m Ruth. I’m going to be your trainer from here on out.”

“Lizzy.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your training, but when you’re done, come find me over there.” Ruth gestured at the sparring courtyard. “I’ll be watching some of your new roommates.”

“Okay.” Lizzy picked up her bow and readied herself to begin shooting again. “I’ll see you soon, then. It was nice to meet you.”

“Sure thing.”

With that, Ruth walked off and Lizzy loosed an arrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotty's last name isn't really "Fouzen," as far as we know. We just mashed his username together until it sounded like an actual possible name.


	3. The Shadow of Diamonds

_October 1919_

The clay tiles were still warm, and were washed in a brilliant red light. The last rays of the sun were glinting off the small channel to the west, which could barely be seen through the buildings. The Charles, a mile away and thoroughly hidden by the city, looked near-black.

Three months. Well, nearly. A few days longer, and she’ll have been exactly three months away from home. It was odd, she’d have thought homesickness would catch her eventually, but she didn’t miss much about her old town.

Boston still didn’t feel like home, though.

A few minutes later and the tiles had cooled; the sky had darkened. Her room was beckoning with promised warmth.

Barefoot, she padded to the edge of the roof, swung over the edge, and hopped onto the narrow ledge that led to her window. It was easy enough, so long as she ignored the fifty foot drop.

His tall frame was conspicuous in the chair. It was made even more conspicuous when he stood, towering over her, disapproval clear in his dark eyes. He didn’t speak until she’d climbed fully through the window.

“Where’ve you been, Alida?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering to the door. It had been locked before she climbed up to the roof.

“Alida,” he snapped, his normally calm composure cracking for a moment, “look at me. I can’t have you disappearing on me, okay? As your trainer, I’m supposed to know where you are.”

“I was on the roof,” Alida replied quietly. “How did you get in?”

“The door was unlocked,” he said easily. That was a lie. “Why were you on the roof? You know trainees aren’t supposed to leave their rooms after curfew.”

His voice was soft, and quiet. It was hiding a sharp undertone Alida really did not like; it was too oddly similar to panic, which just did not make any sense. She was _fourteen_ after all; perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

For a moment, she had the mind to ask what _he_ was doing in _her_ room after curfew, but she knew all too well that would land her in more trouble than she’d like.

“I’m sorry, Ira.”

He smoothed his features into a gentle expression, and curled his lips into a small smile.

Alida continued, “I… I won’t do it again.”

“Good. Thank you.” Ira stepped forward, and she shrank into herself—just a bit. Not enough for him to notice. “You’re my first trainee, and I just want to do this right… alright?”

She nodded, staring at the floor.

After he left, she stood in the middle of her tiny room, gazing at the closed door until it got too dark to see.

\-----

_February 1920_

Alida was a child of the Faceless. Her parents, both fully masked, had kept their family in that life. She grew up learning how to handle weapons, how to run through the city using rooftops and alleyways, how to move through crowds unseen and use shadows to her advantage.

She was taught from a young age how to fight for herself.

She was also taught how to be quiet.

Right now, she wasn’t sure which skill she should use.

The training courtyard was strangely still, dust motes lit by the weak winter light. Alida was standing to the side, barely attempting to stop the stream of blood from her nose, as everyone watched the scene unfold before them.

Ira was striding towards the trainee she’d been sparring with. They were a year younger, and clearly not prepared.

He was shouting at the poor kid, gesturing wildly in her direction, jabbing a finger in their ashen face. There was no reason for Ira to fly off the handle like that; injuries happened all the time in the sparring yard. Ira always got so overprotective when she got hurt. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for the young trainee—and a little guilty. If she’d just dodged their fist, noticed it coming a little sooner...

Some older trainees appeared, spilling out of the hallways as upper-year classes were let out.

One of them, a trainee wearing a brilliant pink skirt and black cat mask, strode forward with tight fists. She shoved her mask up, her eyes blazing and her jaw tight, and Alida could only watch with a wary sort of amazement as this young woman positioned herself firmly between the trembling trainee and Ira.

Ira drew himself up, a sneer splitting his face. But this trainee, not showing even an inch of wavering purpose, didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Back. Off.” Those two words were hissed so fiercely, it was no surprise she wore a cat’s mask.

“Or what. You’ll scratch me?”

With her blood-spotted mask in one hand, the other stemming the flow from her nose, Alida stumbled forward.

“Ira, stop it,” she mumbled from his side, gazing at the small trainee who was wide-eyed and cowering behind the young woman. “It wasn’t their fault. Can we just go now, please.”

“What? No. He had no right _screaming_ at this poor kid here.” She turned to Ira. “You hear that? You have _no fucking right,_ even if you’re graduated and fully masked, and all that bullshit.”

Ira’s eyes narrowed. Everyone in the courtyard held their breath.

Then he snorted softly, and turned to Alida.

“Let’s get you to the medical bay.” He led the way, pushing his handkerchief into Alida’s hand and ignoring the older trainee as she spat insults at his back. The silent crowd parted before him. Alida kept her eyes on the ground, watching as her blood left a trail of bright droplets.

After turning a few corners and walking down some halls Alida stopped.

“I don’t need to see a medic,” she spoke up, eyes flicking to Ira’s back. It was a simple nosebleed; nothing to bother a medic about.

He turned with a frown.

“Ali, don’t be ridiculous. You’re bleeding, you could have a broken-”

“My nose isn’t broken. I’m fine.”

“Why don’t we make sure, okay? Let’s go see a medic—and for God’s sake use the handkerchief. You’re dripping blood everywhere.”

With narrowed eyes she pressed the kerchief to her nose, then turned on her heel and walked back the way they’d come.

“Ali, don’t.”

She kept walking, her shoulders tight.

“Alida!”

His footsteps were sharp against the hard floor, and with his longer stride it didn’t take long for him to catch up. She saw his hand reach out in her peripheral vision, and couldn’t help but feel a guilty sort of satisfaction when it dropped back to his side.

“Ali, please.”

“If it hasn't stopped bleeding in half an hour, _I'll_ go. By myself.”

Ira let out an exasperated sound.

“You're mad at me, aren't you.”

Alida ignored him.

“You are. Is it because I yelled at the kid? Is it something else? I know I didn't handle that whole situation... even _remotely_ well, and I’m truly sorry about that—but you were bleeding so much. It looked like-”

Ira cut the sentence short, and fell behind Alida, staying a good few steps back. Neither of them spoke.

Alida reached the door to the apartment a few seconds before him. She slipped in and shut the door behind her.

“Alida!” He barely had the front door open by the time her door slammed shut.

The click of the lock seemed to echo through the whole apartment.

\-----

_August 1920_

She woke to the sound of muffled sobbing. Blinking up at her ceiling, idly noting that the colour of the sunlight filtering in through the curtains meant it was far too early in the morning, Alida swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stood.

The crying was coming from Ira’s room.

She shrugged on a light cardigan over her nightgown and padded, barefoot, out into the hallway. Ira’s room was the furthest away from hers; in between there was one empty bedroom, meant to be filled with other trainees (eventually), then the opening into the tiny kitchen and dining space.

A quick, quiet rap on the door cut the sobbing short.

There were a few moments filled with the sound of her breaths, then Alida could hear the floorboards creak with his approach.

“Alida?” That had been a croak, at best. It sounded like he'd been crying for hours—which, in all honesty, was probably the only reason Ali had woken up in the first place. Saying she was a heavy sleeper was an understatement.

“Go back to sleep. You don’t have to get up for another hour, at least. It’s only five.”

She had never heard Ira sound so tired—and not the sort that happens when you don’t sleep. Not _just_ that kind, at least.

Hesitant, Ali spoke, “Are you alright? Is… is there anything I can get? Anyone?”

Ira hiccuped on a laugh.

“Unless you can raise the dead, no,” he replied bitterly.

There was a long silence. She could hear his breathing through the door. Then the lock of his door clicked open, and the floorboards creaked again.

She reached out, and rested her hand on the cool door handle. Before she had a chance to talk herself out of whatever it was she was doing, she twisted the knob and opened the door.

His room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly. She waited for her eyes to adjust, her gaze darting from his empty desk to the toppled pile of papers and books; from the chest of drawers with clothing spilling out to the bed that, despite being a mess, clearly had not been slept in.

Ira was sitting in the gap between the bed and the dresser, looking oddly small. One leg was outstretched; the other bent up to provide a rest for his arm. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on yesterday. There were dark circles under his red eyes.

There was a gun in his hand.

The safety was off.

“...Ira?” What was she supposed to do here? Was he going to- Had he been planning on…?

“I’m going to resign as your trainer.” There was no emotion in his voice. “As soon as the offices open. You’ll probably find they’ll give you a temporary trainer, or wait until the rest of the trainees come back from their summer before you get your new one.” He sounded hollow. His eyes, even though they were looking at Alida, were even emptier. This was the first time Ali thought he really looked his age; 38 had always seemed too old.

“Ali, I’m sorry… I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner. You never deserved a mess like me, trying to be your teacher, your role-model. I was trying my best to-”

A sob ripped out of his chest, and he doubled up, the gun clattering to the floor.

His body shook as he curled up tighter, turning away from Alida. Carefully, as though she was approaching a wounded animal, Ali crept up to Ira, and touched his shoulder.

Slowly, she bent down, and awkwardly wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped out through heaving sobs, still stiff in Alida’s arms. Then he turned and pressed his forehead against her arm, his face twisted up with internal agony. His hands remained pressed to his chest, like he was trying to keep something in.

“You look so much like her,” he rasped. “She would’ve been your age by now. She would’ve had her 15th birthday today. Just a little younger than you, by two weeks.”

Ali rubbed his back, unsure of how else to offer comfort when he was hurting this much.

“I think you would’ve liked her. You two are-” his voice broke- “so similar. And Martha would’ve loved you. The rest of the team, too.” Ira choked on a sob. “God, they used to spoil her rotten, and Martha and I would let them, because we loved it just as much.”

Alida stayed there, listening to Ira’s stories, until the rest of the building began to stir. True to his word, Ira neatened himself up and reported to one of the offices.

He left Boston a week later. Alida never heard from him again.

_\-----_

_December 1920_

Their boots crunched in the icy snow, and little puffs of white mist issued from their mouths with every exhale. It was a cold, clear day—one where the sun hardly made a difference.

“So has Sini loosened up at all, or is she still an icy bitch.”

“Ruth!” Alida swatted at her friend’s arm, scowling to hide a smile. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“She was _a little_ cold when she started training me, yes. But not…”

“An icy bitch?” Ruth supplied, laughing at Ali’s exasperated expression.

“And _now,_ ” Alida continued, pointedly ignoring Ruth’s snicker, “she’s warmed up to me a bit. I think it’s the weather. She loves these stupid frigid days.” She ducked her head deeper into the fur trim of her coat, huffing out a breath and watching the white cloud float away.

“I wish you didn’t keep drawing the short straw when it comes to trainers,” Ruth said after a moment. “That Ira was an asshole-”

“He was not!”

“-and I should have kicked his ass that day, when he yelled at the trainee.” Ruth glanced over to Alida. “I know he was hurting, but that’s no excuse for him to take it out on a kid.”

Ali grunted, and stomped through a chunk of snow.

“Then you got Sini the ice bitch.”

“She’s really nice with the younger trainees. Like with Brownie and East. And Moon.”

“Yes, well, I’d hope so. Moon’s something like four or five years younger than you; I don’t think a cold approach would go well with a kid that age.”

It was a few minutes before either of them spoke.

Hesitantly, Ruth said, “So I’m getting my mask in a few weeks, and I was thinking… now that I’ll be a full Faceless, I want to become a trainer.”

“Oh!” Alida smiled. “That’s great!”

“I want you to be one of my trainees.”

Ali stopped, and turned to Ruth.

“I…”

“You don’t have to, of course,” Ruth said in a rush, “I just thought-”

“No, no. Ruth. I’d love to.”

A huge grin broke across Ruth’s face, and Ali beamed in return.

Suddenly, just down the street, a loud yelp rang out. The two of them stepped back as an automobile trundled by, throwing up half-melted snow from the cobbled road, then peered down the block.

A young boy, tall and skinny and wearing far too little for such a cold day, was standing in the snow, spattered with slush. He was swearing rather creatively in French, and Ruth arched an eyebrow at Ali.

“You speak French, right?”

Alida nodded.

“Let’s see how we can help, then.”


	4. The Potato of Diamonds

_ Summer 1921 _

The Crossroads of the West, more commonly known as Salt Lake City, capital of the state of Utah, was a not terrible place to be. Depending on who you asked, it could be awful and full of weird people, or it could be wonderful and full of weird people, or it could just be full of people going about their lives.

Madolin hadn’t made up her mind about it yet.

She sat on the park bench and let her feet swing. They didn’t touch the ground, almost never did when she was sitting, so she might as well let off excess energy.

Nobody really bothered her. She seemed old enough to be on her own—and fifteen-almost-sixteen was doable, though not ideal—so they were right about that. Nobody asked where her parents were (not that she would have answered if they’d asked), or what she was doing in Salt Lake (running away from home).

The more observant people noticed she always sat on the same bench, but most just assumed it was a thing of habit, that it had been a random selection.

Not so.

Madolin bounced her feet again, then reached into her bag to pull out a pencil and paper, beginning the next part of her daily ritual: she drew.

Mostly, this was an excuse to stare at people without garnering too many questions.

A few people, she’d noticed, always went into a set of buildings. Some of them seemed to live there, which was a bit weird considering the secretary at the entrance denied that anyone lived there, and others seemed just to be going to work.

The thing was, she was pretty sure a fair amount of the work that went on inside was illegal.

She didn’t have any actual confirmation of this, only suspicions, but there were a lot of coincidences. There were a lot of guard-like people around the buildings, and even into the park where she sat now. There were a surprising amount of kids for a work building. Nobody seemed to quite know who owned the building or what was done inside it, just that it was owned and stuff was done inside.

And, most importantly, she’d seen several full-faced masks peeking out at her through windows.

That wasn’t normal.

She tapped her pencil on her paper, then frowned at the dots she’d spread all over her sketch. It hadn’t been a particularly good sketch, just something to keep her hands busy and provide cover, but it was still something she didn’t want messed up.

She glanced at her watch, then closed the paper in a book and tucked it back in her bag. It was 11:50. That meant-

Right on time.

A bunch of people about her age were headed across the park, straight away from the buildings. It was a fairly decent bunch of people, twelve or fifteen of them, but it almost always nearly doubled in size for this.

It was lunch time for them.

Madolin stood and swung her bag over her shoulder, then, as another group emerged from the building, ducked inside.

She had no idea where she was going. She didn’t know the building, and she couldn’t see over the heads of most of the other teens.

There were, after all, a lot of teens.

Finally, though, she pulled aside to a room that looked like a library, and slipped inside.

Okay. Now what?

It was, at least, significantly quieter in here. That was good. Fewer things for her to focus on meant she could look around more than the glimpses she got when she looked up from the ground.

She quietly walked through the shelves of books, trying to avoid the people sitting at tables and in chairs and reading, and scanned the books. Nothing immediately jumped out of her—if one ignored the fact that half these didn’t have their titles printed on the spine.

Madolin quietly ran her hand along the spines of the books, picking out titles for those that did have them printed.  _ Garden Variety Poisons. The Human Body and the Subtle Death. Women in History: Poisons. _

Logic suggested this was a section dedicated to poisons. Which, the public library didn’t have that much of a collection (she’d checked).

She raised an eyebrow and continued on. 

She managed to get quite far—finding sections dedicated to medical work, including surgeries, childbirth, the history and development of vaccines, and the skeletomuscular structure; the history of blades as weapons, the development and use of guns, and the making of various weapons; the kinds of explosives that could be made with a thorough supply of materials, easy to make weapons (she flipped through that one—there were several warnings not to try these unsupervised, unless one wanted to lose body parts), and fireworks; and a section of biographical books.

She casually pulled one of those off the shelf and walked over to a nearby chair before sitting down and opening it up to a random page.

It was about a woman called Harriet Tubman.

Excellent. Madolin enjoyed reading about her.

Most of the information in the book, Madolin had at least heard summarized before, until she turned the page and found a chapter heading she’d never seen anywhere else:  _ Becoming an Honorary Faceless. _

Faceless?

Madolin pushed her glasses back up her face and frowned at the page. What was that? She knew what the word meant under normal circumstances, but most people had faces, and, as far as she was aware, so had Tubman.

She flipped through some pages, scanning for it again.

It came up a lot. Not the normal usage of it, though, spelled with a lowercase f. No, this was Faceless, every time.

Faceless.

What were the Faceless? The biography kept saying things about Tubman being offered resources from them, but that... didn’t really answer the question?

A shadow crossed onto the book, and it stayed there.

Madolin looked up, only to see someone standing in front of her with crossed arms.

A mask was covering the entirety of their face.

\-----

“Why’d you sneak in, miss?”

Madolin shook her head and tugged against the hand gripping her wrist. “I told you. I wanted to see what this building was. And I didn’t sneak: I just walked in through the door. Nobody stopped me.”

She was in an office of some kind. She’d been dragged down the hall by Masked Person One, and brought face-to-face with another person without a face.

This must be what the book had meant by Faceless.

“You were found in the library. I find that hard to believe. How did you know where to go? What did you see?”

“The floor, mostly.” Madolin shrugged. “I dunno. I just put my head down and walked until I found a quiet room.”

Masked Person Two—Faceless Two, technically, now that she knew these were Faceless—seemed to look at Faceless One, who still had that grip on her wrist.

“Let go of my wrist.” She didn’t bother looking at Faceless One. “I promise I won’t run.”

The plus side of these masks, she was learning very quickly, was it made it impossible for eye contact to happen.

Good. Made life easier.

Finally, Faceless One let go. Instantly, Madolin took her free hand and grabbed the strap of her bag, fiddling with it.

“I’m not lying to you—I’ve not got a reason to lie to you,” she added.

Faceless Two sighed and put their head down, leaning on the desk between them. “You realize, miss, I can’t just let you go. You’ve seen things you’re not supposed to see, and things I can’t have you repeat to your friends here.”

“I don’t have friends.” Madolin raised an eyebrow, even as an idea came to her. “But you don’t have to keep me here, either.”

Faceless Two looked up. “I’m not killing a girl, and your parents will go looking if you go missing.”

“They haven’t in the months since I left home.” Madolin shook her head. “That’s besides the point. Look-”

_ “What kind of parents don’t look for a kid your age,”  _ Faceless One hissed in shock.

“-if you help me get away from here—to Boston or something-” yes, Boston was a nice distance away- “then I’ll keep my mouth shut about this whole place.”

“Why would I trust you’d do that?”

“Who’d believe a runaway about this? A simple one, at that.”

“...who called you that?”

“It’s what I am.” Madolin crossed her arms. “Do we have a deal or not.”

Faceless Two sighed and dropped into their seat. “What- You’re the only person to get inside undetected for as long as you did. I-”

“Deal. Or no deal.”

Faceless Two ran their hands through their hair. “Deal.”

“Good.”

Now what.

\-----

Madolin had never been on a train before, and took the opportunity of being on one to stare out the window with wide eyes as they nyoomed through the mountains of Colorado.

“Don’t break the glass. It’s a long way to fall.”

Madolin looked over at her Faceless escort—a man who’d introduced himself as Moo and revealed the reason he was helping her to Boston was because he was being transferred there—and gave him a flat look. “I’m not leaning that hard on it.”

He laughed and leaned back in his seat. “If you say so, kid.”

She stuck out her tongue at him and went back to staring out the window.

\----

The train lost some of its novelty after the third day, and to help pass the time Moo and Madolin talked. Most of the things were fairly inconsequential, but some of them made Moo pause. Madolin seemed to know far more than a girl of her age should. Most of it had apparently come from reading, but that was still decently impressive.

Moo never asked about her parents, which Madolin appreciated, but it was more out of necessity than anything. They were supposedly traveling as uncle and niece, after all, so anyone who knew that would expect him to know what was going on with them.

The train broke down in Ohio somewhere, forcing them to get a room for the night. Moo gave Madolin the bed and took the chair. Neither of them slept particularly well that night, but the world continued on anyway, and they were at the station again dark and early to catch the replacement train.

Madolin fell asleep in her seat on the train that day, and Moo just pulled off his suit jacket and draped it over her.

And, finally, they were in Boston.

Madolin took a deep breath and gripped her bag, eyes darting around the busy station. Where was she supposed to go now? What was her next plan?

Find a place to sleep and a way to get food. She could become a seamstress or a housekeeper, so she’d have to find a way to read a paper to see who was looking for those. If she had to, she could even become a factory worker, though she doubted she’d last long with that, given how noisy that job was.

“Where are you headed now, Mad?” Moo asked, coming to stand next to her.

“I-” She shook her head. “I’ll figure it out.” For now, she had to get out. Boston was a noisy city, yes, but the station was bound to be busier than most of it, since trains.

Moo frowned at her. “Well, I can get you a place for the night, at least, if it’d help.”

Madolin let her gaze drop the the floor. If she didn’t have to look at everything the sound wasn’t so bad. “I... Yeah. Okay.”

Moo nodded. “Okay. Come on, then.”

The two made their way through the station, until Moo stopped to talk to someone. Madolin risked a glance up to see Moo gesture at her, though what he was saying was too hard to make out clearly.

The person nodded, pursing their lips, and then seemed to lead the way.

“Are you planning on college?” the unknown person asked. “The local one starts here in a few weeks.”

Right. It was the last week of July.

“No. Not yet, at least.” Madolin murmured.

She missed the look Moo and the unknown person exchanged.

They came to a car—how interesting. There had been cars in Salt Lake, of course, quite a few of them, but she’d never ridden in one before. It was probably at least somewhat similar to the train, though, logically, since they both had wheels and ran on an engine.

Moo and the person sat in the front, allowing her the back (with the luggage), speaking quietly with each other.

The car was somewhat similar to the train. Rougher, with potholes in the street, and slower, with foot traffic and horses and other cars, but not bad.

Madolin just looked out the window again. People were walking and children and animals also existed and most people were minding their business and there was a newsie on the corner—all in all, this wasn’t too different from Salt Lake. A bit noisier, definitely, with the smell of salt in the air—but that wasn’t necessarily anything new. She’d been to the Great Salt Lake before. It was just kinda like that. Sorta.

“Hey, Mad,” Moo said as they came to a stop, “stay here for a bit, okay? I’ll come get you in a bit.”

She just nodded.

\-----

“Madolin?” a woman’s voice asked, and she looked up to see a woman approaching the car.

“That’s me.”

The woman opened the door and stood there as Madolin climbed out.

“What do you say to becoming a Faceless?”

Madolin blinked, then looked around. Had nobody heard that?

Nobody was really around to hear it. The evening air was starting to cool, but everyone seemed to be inside the large building. 

“I... what would that mean for me?”

“Well, you’d have a place to live and you wouldn’t have to worry about getting enough to eat. We’d teach you how to defend yourself, and how to fight, and one day, you’d be a full Faceless. You’d have to join in on the trade, of course, which does sometimes involve killing people, but it’s not too bad. You’re more of an information girl—or so Moo said, anyway; so the chances of that are low.”

Madolin shifted, clutching her bag tightly to herself. Was she really willing to do this?

What was her alternative, though? End up dead on the street? She really hadn’t thought this through.

“What if I change my mind later?”

“Chances are, we’ll leave you be, as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

Okay.

Okay, she could do that.

So she nodded.

The woman offered a hand. “I’m Ruth, by the way. I’ll be your trainer.”


	5. The Incognito of Spades

_ December 1920 _

Clement ducked behind one of the freight crates in the boxcar, quietly making sure he stayed out of sight as someone walked around and inspected the inside.

“All good here, boys,” they said, and then the thud of boots as they hopped down from the train car—not that Clement understood it. He hadn’t managed to pick up much English just yet.

Then the grating of metal on metal as the door was pulled closed.

Clement took a deep breath and climbed onto one of the crates, sitting cross-legged. Okay. They’d said this train was headed east. East was good. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. Just, east. Away from those Immigration Service officers.

He didn’t know what they wanted to do with him, exactly, but he didn’t want to stick around and find out.

He was fairly sure he’d get away, though. He’d gotten away from everyone else, so far.

Clement pulled off his knapsack and rummaged in it. He should still have some of the food he stole earlier—yeah, there it was.

He stretched out on the crate, barely fitting his gangly thirteen-year-old body on well enough to not fall off, and settled for the long trip.

\-----

America was a lot different than Vietnam had been. They were two different countries, after all.

Clement wasn’t sure if he’d been expecting all... this, though.

He was certainly hoping he’d have been able to pick up more English by now, but he got by. People could tell he wasn’t a local, though, and a lot of them were rude about it. Some of them weren’t, though.

He told them a fair amount about himself, or at least what he felt was safe before he’d have to hop the next train heading east. He never told anyone his full name (Clement Quang Nguyen), or even his full first name. He just told them “Clem” a lot.

He’d been running across all of America, and had seen a lot of different kinds of people, but he was just about out of America to run across.

He was in a coastal city now. He’d picked up enough to struggle through reading English, and a local newspaper said this city’s name was “Boston,” but he hadn’t gotten through the rest of it.

He was pretty sure there was a little bit more east he could go, if he went north. At least, that’s what the map on the wall of the station seemed to suggest.

Clement didn’t really want to ride on the trains any more, though. He’d been on and off them for nearly a month, and he wanted to just... stop running. The officers had surely lost track of him by now—assuming they even cared all that much about a kid.

Clement made a face as he looked around, then shook his head and just started walking. He probably wasn’t going to find someone he could communicate with: French was probably not used here, and Vietnamese was even less likely.

He’d figure it out.

Clement pulled his threadbare jacket close, and tried to step in the drier parts of the sidewalk. The winter chills dug into him, but he continued anyway. They wouldn’t let him stay in the station overnight, and it was starting to get dark, so he’d have to find shelter soon.

Clement quietly cursed—in French, this time—as snow was thrown up onto him by a passing automobile. What was this city, besides dirty and cold and filled with tall buildings and people giving him untrusting looks?

“Oh!” a young woman’s voice said, before something in English Clement didn’t catch. And, then, in French,  _ “Are you okay?” _

Clement looked up and stared at someone not too much older than he was, an older teenager behind her, and shook his head.  _ “I don’t know what I’m doing.” _

_ “Well, here.” _ She frowned.  _ “I’m not sure what I can do to help, entirely, but,”  _ she brightened,  _ “I know a place we can eat. Don’t worry, I’ll pay.” _

Clement hesitated before agreeing. Might as well get a warm meal before he ended up spending the night curled in an alley somewhere.

The girl said something to her companion, who nodded and walked off with a wave.

_ “I’m Alida,” _ the girl said.  _ “Who are you?” _

_ “Clement.”  _ She’d only given him a first name, so presumably she was okay with just that from him.

She beamed.

Alida turned out to be a good listener, and Clement hadn’t really had someone to talk to in a while, so it worked out nicely.

And then they got to the restaurant.

Clement froze when he glanced inside the window.

He didn’t know much about American customs yet, but there was no way he’d be allowed inside a place like that. It was nice, for one, and it was busy. They weren’t going to have time nor patience for a kid whose last opportunity at bathing had been at the kindness of another stranger last week.

_ “Clem?” _ Alida asked.  _ “Is everything okay?” _

He shook his head.  _ “I can’t go inside there.” _

_ “Why not?” _ She frowned a little bit.

He gestured to himself, then at the inside of the restaurant.

Alida sighed, then grabbed his hand and flung open the door, dragging him inside.

Clement squeaked.

A waiter walked up to them, conversed briefly with Alida (though he did send a concerned glance at Clement), and led them to a booth near the wall.

_ “What do you want?” _ Alida asked, sliding a menu over to Clement.

Clement was about to protest that he couldn’t read the menu, when he realized several categories had hand-drawn pictures next to them.

It was pretty, and he was pretty sure not the typical sort of thing to do.

Clement picked out some things that looked decent, but not too expensive (after all, Alida wasn’t that much older than he was and undoubtedly couldn’t afford too much), and waited for the waiter to return. He looked around the restaurant in the meantime, watching the people, the way the lights sparkled off drinks, the soft music being played on the stand at the back of the room, the curtained off area- the way their waiter was speaking with someone wearing an impeccable suit across the room and gesturing to their table.

Clement didn’t get a good look at the man, because just as he was trying, the man went to look at them, and Clement instinctively ducked his head.

_ “That’s one of the supervisors,”  _ Alida said.  _ “Well, Brian is our waiter, but the guy he’s talking to? He’s one of the supervisors. His mother owns the restaurant. She’s a delightful woman.” _

_ “Why is he gesturing at us, though?” _

_ “I don’t know. It won’t be anything bad, though. Mark will make sure of that.” _

Clement continued to worry, though, especially as time passed and Brian came over a few times to apologize for the delay in their meal.

Clement just slid as far up against the wall as he could and tried to be unobtrusive.

The restaurant was largely silent by the time Brian brought over their meals.

Clement looked up, a bit surprised, only to pause when he realized that this was more food than either he or Alida had ordered. And, then, as his gaze slid up more, that Brian had stepped aside to reveal two men. One of whom, Clement recognized as the Mark Alida had named earlier, in a sharp suit and with a soft expression of concern, and the other (looking like Mark’s brother) also in a sharp suit, and a bit more weary-looking.

And both of them, somehow, felt like a comforting piece of home. Maybe it was the warmth in their eyes, or how they both had the same general features as Clement.

Maybe it was the way they naturally stood close to each other, or how they seemed innately aware of each other.

Mark asked Alida something, and she turned to Clement, frowning.

This was it, then. There had been a mix-up of some kind, or something, and he would have to leave.

_ “Mark wants to know where your family is, and if you have a place to stay.” _

Clement shook his head. They weren’t here, and that was all that mattered.

Mark and his brother exchanged a long, long look. Mark said something else to Alida, and she nodded.

_ “Where are you from? Like, what country?” _

Clement hesitated, then gave in. He couldn’t run now. He might as well answer honestly.

_ “Vietnam.” _

Alida relayed the information, and the two brothers quietly, quickly, debated between themselves about something. The way Alida’s eyes widened, it must not have been a normal thing. 

Finally, Alida turned back to Clement.

_ “You can eat, you know. They’re worried about you not touching the food.” _

_ “I was worried I’d get in trouble.” _

_ “Eat it, Clem. It’ll be okay.” _

Clement hesitantly grabbed the closest dish that looked like something familiar, even vaguely, and began eating while the brothers continued talking.

_ “They want to know if you’d be more comfortable around their mother.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “I don’t know.”  _ A pause as Alida exchanged words, and then she nodded.  _ “She grew up in Korea. So while she doesn’t know exactly what you’re going through, she’s got a better idea than I do.” _

Korea, huh? Clement looked at the two brothers, who were clearly trying to not watch him so conspicuously. That was a long way from here.

Ultimately, though, he shook his head.  _ “I’d rather not overstay their hospitality.” _

Alida sighed, but passed it on. She paused, then began saying something else. Mark’s face went from concerned to understanding and slightly less concerned, and he said something back.

There was a soft knock on the front door, and Mark and his brother both automatically looked over it at. His brother said something, touched Mark lightly on the arm, and walked over to the door.

When he walked back over, he was being followed by Alida’s friend from before.

Alida’s friend and Mark spoke for quite a while, long enough for Clement to finish eating anything he ever could have dreamed of eating tonight (and it was such good food, too, properly seasoned and not at all the bland stuff that he’d had so far in America). Alida had eaten, too, and Brian had packed their leftovers into little boxes.

Strange.

Finally, Mark and Alida’s friend stood from their seats and walked over. They talked for several minutes before Alida turned to Clement again.

_ “Ruth found a place for you to stay with a friend. If that doesn’t end up working out, though, you’re welcome to stay with the Fischbachs. You’re not going to end up on the streets, Clem.” _

Something deep inside Clement loosened at that, and he found himself able to breathe deeply for the first time in weeks.

And he started to cry.

Murmured English and Alida’s name came from the Mark fellow, and then strong, warm arms gently wrapped around him, and Clement found himself being pulled into a comforting embrace by Mark.

Mark was perfectly content to let Clement cry, until the boy went still against him, then looked up at this Ruth person. “He’s fallen asleep on me.”

“He’s had a long day.” Ruth looked out the window. “I’ve got a car, though, so I can just take him to my friend’s, if you’re okay with that.”

Mark nodded, carefully leaning the boy against the wall to stand, and then equally carefully scooping him up. “I’ll put him in it.”

After the boy, Alida, and Ruth had left (with the leftovers), Tom clapped Mark on the shoulder. “Does that happen often?”

Mark chuckled ruefully and rubbed the back of his neck. “I like to help where I can.”

Tom chuckled himself. “You know, one day that heart of yours is going to get you in trouble.”

“Bring it.”

The brothers laughed.

And, when they received a heartfelt letter written in shaky Korean a week or so later (with Vietnamese on the back), Tom quietly pocketed it to keep and read over when he needed a reminder of the good Mark did humanity. He was bound to need it, now that he was picking up pace in the judicial system.

He’d keep it for years.


	6. The Musician of Hearts

_ Fall 1921 _

Boston was a pretty alright place. Frequent gigs, people from all sorts of places, and something new happened everyday—like seeing someone in trouble. 

Jae should have gone home already, he knew that. It was midnight, and his gig had ended a full half hour ago. He knew his way through this particular part of Boston well enough, at least, so it’s not like he’d gotten  _ lost. _

Or, well, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He’d lived here for thirteen years now, and he still didn’t really know his way around. Granted, he’d never claimed directions were his strong suit, but still.

Jae hefted his saxophone case and looked around the intersection, squinting to see if he could make out street signs or landmarks or anything by the dim light of the street lights. And while he  _ could _ see leaves swirling in the street, kicked about by the light fall breeze, and the moon shining through the slight cloud cover, there weren’t actually any useful bits of information.

He sighed and just picked a street.

He had only walked half a block or so before he heard the unmistakable sound of someone in pain.

Jae paused, looking around. Where were they? Could he help?

There. That alley over there—the shadows were moving much more than could be attributed to a street cat or six. Maybe ten or twelve of them, but that seemed a bit unlikely.

So he strode over.

“Hey!”

As his eyes finished adjusting to the darker state, he realized he’d most definitely interrupted a mugging. Or a mob intimidation. It was awfully hard to tell the difference between them sometimes. 

Either way, that was a knife one person had, and a gun the other had.

“Whaddya want, kid,” one of the two muggers said.

“I want you to be nice.” Jae shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. He might have to run soon. “That’s it.”

The other mugger laughed.

“Move it, and keep your mouth shut.”

That was the way things worked here, in this glorious city of Boston. Or, at least, it was the way it was supposed to work.

Jae bunched his hands into fists, then grabbed the strap on his saxophone case.

“That’s right. Just move,” Mugger One threatened.

When he swung his saxophone case and bonked Mugger One over the head with it, he wasn’t sure who was more surprised: himself, that he’d actually gone through with the impulse, Mugger Two, or the poor person getting mugged.

A long second stretched out between them all before the person getting mugged scrambled to their feet and bolted.

Mugger One slowly pushed himself to their feet, rubbing their head, and scowling.

That was the only warning Jae got before the two muggers jumped him.

Jae had never gotten in a proper fight before, but he knew the basics of what he had to do. In a fair fight, that was. These guys had a gun and a knife, though, so that made it a very unfair fight.

His solution was to fight dirty. Even the playing ground.

Even by grabbing ears and hair and just about anything he had for a purchase, though, Jae ended up thudding against the brick wall. He wasn’t sure if he had more bruises or broken ribs or shallow cuts from struggling to avoid getting caught, but he sure hurt enough to have plenty of all three.

Mugger Two dug their hand into Jae’s short hair, grabbed the curls, and yanked his head up, only to put the knife to his throat.

The sickening squelch of a blade exiting a body sounded.

Mugger One slowly crumpled, then fell to reveal a large dark stain spreading across their back.

Two figures wearing full-faced masks stood in their place.

Mugger Two cursed and let go of Jae, scrambling backwards, only to get a precisely thrown knife embedded in their throat—the resulting spray of blood barely missed splattering Jae.

The taller of the two masked figures walked up to Jae, while the shorter retrieved her knife.

“Anything bleeding?” Masked One asked, offering Jae a hand.

Jae took it, pressing his bloody lip to the back of his hand. “Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Good.” They clapped him on the shoulder. “Get off the street, kid. Go home to your parents, or whatever family you have. Boston’s too dangerous in the dark.”

And, with that, the two masked figures seemed to just vanish into the shadows.

Jae painfully retrieved his saxophone case from where it had fallen, then hobbled back the direction he’d come. He did eventually find his way home, where he carefully cleaned himself up. He’d have to get his suit washed, since he got blood on it, so he pulled his spare one out of the closet and searched the pockets of the old one to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.

He wasn’t forgetting anything, per se, but there was something in his suit jacket pocket that hadn’t been there before: a business card.

Jae sat on his bed, turning the card over in his fingers.

His tendency to take late-night gigs meant he’d seen those kinds of masks before. He’d never seen those exact masks before, but he had seen similar ones. They’d always vanished into shadows or into crowds or onto rooftops before he could figure out what they were up to, but he definitely had seen those masks before.

He tapped the card against his hand, then set it on his bedside table and climbed under the covers. In the morning, he’d go investigate.

There was, after all, an address on the card.

\-----

An apartment building?

That couldn’t be right. 

But, no, this was the address on the business card.

Nobody stopped Jae as he went inside, though there was a receptionist at a desk in the front who definitely noticed him walking in.

He finally found the apartment, though, and went to knock—only to realize the door was open a crack.

So he just pushed it open.

The door opened to reveal a living room with a fair number of seats, several tables, and far too many bookcases to be practical. It looked lived in—except for one particular bookshelf, which looked like it had been recently organized or something? Or maybe-

A string of Vietnamese and French erupted from the other side of the room, and it sounded like cursing.

Jae flipped around to see a boy a bit younger than him but almost as tall glaring at him.

He was the one cursing.

Okay, well, that meant-

Footsteps sounded, and a teenage girl rounded the corner from the hall inside the apartment, a very clearly sharp knife in hand.

“Who are you and what are you doing in here?” she demanded.

Jae’s eyes widened.

“The door- it was unlocked, I just-”

She took a step closer, eyes narrowed behind glasses. “Knocking is the socially acceptable thing to do.”

Jae held up his hands and started backing up. “Hey- hey hey hey- I was following the card, and I-”

She stopped and sighed, then put her hand on her hip and shook her head, her brown hair falling into her face. “Ali? Ruth?”

A pause, then two more people emerged—one of them wearing an apron.

“Is this your saxophone bonker from last night?” Knife girl gestured at Jae.

“It is,” the taller, the one of Masked One, said. Then she paused and raised an eyebrow. “Mad, why is your knife out?”

“Teach him how to knock when you talk to him.” With that, Knife girl turned and walked off. Mad, her name was? No, that had to be a nickname of some kind.

“She’s not too fond of strangers,” the shorter person from the night before explained. She, too, was younger than Jae had been expecting for someone who’d casually murdered someone in an alley.

“I did try to warn her.”

“She was still counting on the knocking for a warning.”

The taller one sighed, then turned to Jae. “Well, now that you’re here, I have an offer for you...”


	7. An Odd Hand(ful)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a Spotify song for this chapter, if you want to listen to it.](https://open.spotify.com/track/4RXpgGM7A4Hg7cFBoH5KyF?si=iT_XVuYeSlm1aJyVw9w6wA)

_ February 1924 _

Nobody ever looked up.

That, very simply, was a fact of life.

Most of the time, it didn’t mean much. But, at this exact moment, it was providing a freedom.

Five figures darted across the rooftops, flinging themselves across the gaps between buildings with practiced ease. One of them, the tallest, skidded a bit on landing, but hands were there to steady him.

“Thanks,” Jae breathed, shoving his mask up for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was fog up the lenses on the inside. He didn’t need them to see, not like Madolin did, but they still provided some protection in a fight, and they glinted scarily in street lights.

“Of course,” Madolin replied curtly, though her mask had only been shifted enough to reveal her mouth, and when she was done speaking, she pulled it back down.

“When you’re ready,” Alida said, moving to stand on the edge of the roof and look down.

“Gimme a minute.” Jae leaned down on his knees.

Madolin walked over to stand next to Alida, though as Alida watched the streets, Madolin watched the moon beginning to peek over the horizon.

“You okay?” Lizzy asked, standing with Clement next to Jae.

Jae nodded, standing and pulling his mask down. “A little shaken, is all. These roofs are icy.”

“That’s why we’re having me go first,” Madolin called over her shoulder. “I’m more used to falling.”

It wasn’t like any of the roofs they were running on were slanted or anything, so slipping usually meant falling and embarrassment, nothing more. Unless you tended to fall backwards, in which case you were looking at a potential fall down at least five storeys. Which, even with the skill Faceless doctors had, was pretty much a death sentence.

Nobody said having fun wasn’t risky.

“You know,” Jae said, “I’m glad you guys have my back. It would have been so easy for none of us to meet. And who knows where we’d be if we hadn’t become almost a family.”

“Ehhhh,” Madolin said. “Not in a great place.”

Clement nodded in agreement, then paused. His lion mask hid his expression, but they all knew him well enough to know he was making a thoughtful face. “I mean, I could have been with the Fischbachs.”

The five of them paused, looking away from each other.

“Let’s not think about that, Clam,” Madolin sighed. “I don’t think I could stand the thought of losing my family. Not again.”

“We don’t know I would have been caught in the fire,” Clement argued. “You never know—I might have even been able to help Mark get out.”

“Maybe,” Alida said noncommittally.

The five of them stood in silence, hearts aching. They’d frequented the Tiny Box over the years they’d been in Boston, and all of them had enjoyed the place—even Madolin, despite how noisy the place got. (She just went during the slow times.)

They’d never get to go again.

“They said Mark was the one who set the fire, right?” Lizzy asked.

Nods.

“...I wish he’d gotten out.”

More nods.

“I wish Mir didn’t have him,” Clement said, an unusually fierce edge in his tone. 

“They’re still working on a plan,” Madolin said, glancing over. “They don’t even know where he is right now, though, and that’s what they need to figure out first.”

“Don’t they have someone working on it?”

“I think they’re trying to get someone undercover in the mafiya.” Alida turned and rejoined the others, followed by Madolin. “I don’t know who, yet, though.”

“I do,” Madolin said. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

“Are you going to tell the rest of us?”

“No.”

Clement grumbled and Jae gasped.

“Why not?”

“Because you three haven’t graduated yet, and because we’re not supposed to share information with people unless they need it.”

“I need it to know Mark’s going to be safe.”

“I don’t think this would make you think that,” Madolin said flatly.

Clement crossed his arms.

“In other news,” Alida said, a faintly amused tone in her voice, “we’ve heard that the Wolf Pup is on the mend. It’ll be a few months before he’s back in Boston, but he’ll be coming back sooner or later.”

“Good.” Madolin shoved her hands in her pockets. “There’s just not enough information to look through without him reporting on the precinct.”

“Mad- we have access to all the information in the entire city.” Alida shook her head.

“Yeah, but it’s not  _ interesting _ information. I really don’t care how many people look like they’re taking regular bribes from the various mobs in the city.”

“That sounds interesting,” Jae protested.

“We have the most.”

“Oh.”

“Are they going to tell you when Gar’s coming back?” Lizzy asked.

Madolin made a soft sound. “Probably not. It’s not something we really need to know. We’re not going to pick him up, after all.”

“Pity.”

“Shut up.”

Chuckles ran around the group, and Madolin ignored them in favor of turning to Jae.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Alrighty.” With that, Madolin took off down the roofs again, followed by her friends and fellow Faceless.

It was nearly half an hour later that they finally came to a stop, in the living room of the apartment they’d all shared for so long. 

Except, now that Madolin and Alida had graduated, they didn’t live here anymore. They still lived nearby, of course, in Faceless apartments, but they weren’t trainees. They couldn’t live with the trainees.

“How was the city?” Ruth asked, sticking her head out from the kitchen.

“Cold,” Madolin said, pulling off her mask and pulling a pair of glasses from a protected pocket on the inside of her jacket. “How about here?”

“Warm and toasty. Speaking of, there’s toast with supper.”

“Aww yeah.”

Masks came off, and so did jackets and muddy and wet shoes. Clement and Jae went to finish some of their assigned works, and Lizzy oiled her bow. Madolin and Alida went into the kitchen to help Ruth finish making and setting out supper.

“It’s quiet here without you two,” Ruth admitted. “I’m glad I still get to feed you every now and then.”

“Oh, trust me, I very much appreciate it.” Madolin didn’t look up from setting silverware out around the table. “Nobody else knows food textures quite like you do. The number of times someone’s tried to give me some food that’s ended up being wrong is alarmingly high.”

“They were just trying to be kind.” Alida shook her head as she set about washing some of the dishes from cooking.

“I know. I know. It’s not their fault, they didn’t know. Doesn’t mean I can eat the food any more, though.”

“How is living off on your own?” Ruth asked. “Everything going okay with that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Still getting used to it,” Alida said.

“I love it.” Madolin grinned, going to fetch cups from the cupboard. “It’s quiet, and I don’t have to let people in to talk to me if I don’t want to, and the view is pretty nice.”

“There’s definitely a lot of room for books,” Alida agreed. “And that view—yeah. That’s a good one.”

A long pause, and then Alida was wrapping Ruth in a hug. “We miss you, though.”

Madolin reached over and patted Ruth on the shoulder, then returned to setting the table. They knew it was her way of agreeing.

“I miss you two too.” Ruth hugged Alida tightly back, then let go.

“Does that make everything?” Madolin asked.

Ruth looked at the stoves and counters, full of food, and then at the table, with the places all set. “I think so.”

“I’ll call them in,” Madolin said, walking out into the living room.

They didn’t get to eat all that often together, now that Madolin and Alida had graduated.

But, Ruth decided as she looked around the table, at her little family, that made their meals together all the sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This was a blast, and while it doesn't really do much to the main works in the series, we wanted to put it out.
> 
> One year ago, today, we published the first chapter of Against All Odds. In that time, we have not only published all 223,811 words of AAO, but over 260k words in the Royal Flush series as a whole.
> 
> We never could have expected the response. It's been nothing but overwhelming support, even during the deliberate hiatus we took about May last year and the accidental one in November. We, as a team, have grown closer, and honestly consider each other to be a family of a kind.
> 
> As we said at the end of AAO, we're not done yet. We're not going to be done with all this for quite a bit. We really love writing for this, and we have plenty of ideas we've yet to put out and figure out in this AU.
> 
> We're still going to be releasing a short story for this series every 1st and 15th of every month, at least until August. What happens in August, you ask? Well, we have plans. :D
> 
> See you on the fifteenth for your regularly scheduled content!


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